Dark Echoes
by startraveller776
Summary: ALTERNATE MIRROR UNIVERSE. (Sequel to "Reflections of Another Universe") Trip Tucker becomes more entangled in espionage that could change the balance of power in the alpha quadrant. All this while trying to protect his new wife as they survive the savagery that is the Mirror Universe. ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.
1. Launched

**Disclaimer: ** I don't own Star Trek or the characters therein. I merely put them in ridiculously dark and difficult circumstances and wring my hands maniacally as they suffer. (Being a writer is wonderfully sociopathic, isn't it?) All solely for our entertainment. Because I draw the line at copyright harming.

**A/N:** First, this is a sequel to _Reflections of Another Universe_. You must read that in order to understand what's going on here.

Second, this is an **Alternate** Mirror Universe—meaning this in **no way** resembles the canon Mirror Universe shown in the "In a Mirror, Darkly" episodes.

****Third, this story is reposted per request. It's on indefinite hiatus, unfortunately. So I cannot guarantee any updates after chapter 5.****

Finally, thanks goes to **HopefulRomantic** for her tireless beta services. I've grown leaps and bounds under her exacting tutelage, and I love her for it.

* * *

**Prologue**  
_Launched_

* * *

T'Pau traced her slender fingers along the carving etched into the _shek-tukh_ wood inlay on her desk. The artisan who had painstakingly etched the hard wood had chosen to depict the Awakening. On one side the scene was violent, passionate, and chaotic. The other was orderly, serene, with all Vulcan eyes upon the figure standing at the peak of Mount Seleya with arms outstretched: Surak.

She glanced at the two digital tablets on her desk. Each represented a new direction for Vulcan. Both had the potential to protect Vulcan from new threats that lay so dangerously close to its borders. Both had the power to throw her world back into the age of chaos if T'Pau chose unwisely. Her eyes again turned to the figure on Mount Seleya. What might the Father of Logic have done in her place? Would he have approved either choice? What would he have done to save Vulcan this time?

T'Pau would never have his answer. His _katra_ had been lost forever when Syrran had died in The Forge. She had only the words of the Kir'Shara to guide her now, words which were so multi-layered she was often left to her own interpretations.

She was the champion for her people now. It was her duty to preserve Vulcan, to protect it from enemies both within and without. She could not afford to doubt her decisions. Her world, her people needed direction, even if the cost were greater than T'Pau would have liked. The price of doing nothing would lead to annihilation.

Preservation was T'Pau's only ambition: the preservation of everything which gave meaning to her people. She would sacrifice herself to save them. The needs of the many outweighed her needs. The needs of the many outweighed _all._

The door opened with a soft swish, drawing her from her thoughts. T'Pau glanced up and found Kov standing before her. His mouth twitched with barely masked anticipation.

Today was the day. Today she would discover what kind of fruit her finely laid plans had produced. Today she would choose between two difficult paths. She inhaled deeply, further calming the turmoil that was threatening at the edges of her _katra_.

Kov waited patiently, saying nothing as he tilted his head to one side. Others believed it somewhat scandalous that her counselor would allow so much emotion to slip so close to the brink of spilling over. Their opinions mattered little to her, however. She did not see the logic of losing Kov's wisdom merely because he was not an adept student of Surak.

T'Pau nodded. "Speak."

"They have arrived, Chancellor," he said with a hint of awe in his voice.

"You may send them in," she responded with wave of her hand. As Kov left the spacious office, T'Pau adjusted her robes and sat taller in her chair. She was neither nervous nor anxious. She was, however, aware of how others perceived her—far from imposing with her small stature and youth. At times, such erroneous perceptions worked to her advantage.

The doors swung wide as Vulcan's most brilliant tactician, Commander Soval, entered the room with his first and second officers. His stride was confident and his eyes took in the entirety of the office with a single glance, before he settled his steely gaze on T'Pau. As he made his way toward her, she noted that despite the force of his presence, he was only of moderate size and height.

All three stopped short of her desk and offered her the _ta'al_. "We come to serve," the commander spoke in his deep voice.

"Your service honors us." She returned the gesture.

T'Pau studied Soval's face as the officers silently waited with hands clasped behind their backs. It was a hard face, lined with age and experience. A faint scar broke his left brow and continued upward in a diagonal streak across his forehead. His steel-grey hair was cropped shorter than the traditional Vulcan style. He also wore a goatee that, combined with his ever stern expression, made his appearance further menacing. Had he carefully crafted his appearance, or was it a product of the life he had chosen?

"Report," she said.

Soval glanced to his left and gave a brief nod to his officer, who stepped forward and placed a set of oddly shaped disks on her desk. Just as quickly and quietly, he stepped back to the commander's side.

"We retrieved these from the coordinates as you commanded," Soval explained.

T'Pau picked up one of the disks and turned it over. It fit comfortably in the palm of her hand. Fascinating that something so small could change everything for Vulcan. She looked back at Soval. "Your companions are excused, Commander."

He kept his dark eyes on her as his officers saluted and left the room.

T'Pau stepped around her desk and drew closer to Soval. "Were you able to assist the V'Laran?"

His brow furrowed. "We were able to assist them in their repairs, and I chose an adequate senior officer to command the vessel until it returns to Vulcan." He paused, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "The Terran warship had already retreated when we arrived. As you ordered, we did not pursue."

T'Pau had little doubt that he found leaving T'Pol in the hands of the humans to be illogical. "The loss of both Commander Koss and Sub-Commander T'Pol is regrettable."

Soval turned his head to face her fully, hardness tightening the corners of his eyes. "Koss was a fool," he said, a hint of disdain evident in his tone. "I find his death neither surprising nor remarkable."

T'Pau raised her brow. "Indeed." She studied the commander once more, reminding herself that he was, in fact, a dangerous man. "What think you of T'Pol?" she asked, recalling that the young woman had been one of his protégées.

His eyes narrowed a fraction further. "If I may speak candidly?" At her nod, he said, "I fail to see the purpose of this espionage. The humans invaded our space, attacked one of our vessels, and kidnapped an officer who once served in the Ministry of Security. Each of these actions alone would be an act of war. Together they _demand_ such. Forgive my disappointment in allowing such atrocities to go unanswered."

T'Pau understood his sentiments. Had this not been an exceptional situation, she would have ordered the immediate dispatch of the fleet, if only to remind the humans to keep to the agreements of the _Terran Accords_. But there were exigent circumstances preventing such actions—and soon Soval would be privy to them.

T'Pau picked up one of tablets from her desk and held it out to him. "These are your new orders. You will be taking command of the fleet."

He raised his brow in surprise as he took the tablet from her. "What of Kusaak?"

"He is required elsewhere," she replied.

He glanced at the orders and there was an almost imperceptible widening of his eyes. When he looked up his face was again a mask. "And if the coup proves unsuccessful?"

T'Pau lifted her chin. "Then you will exact payment from the humans for their crimes against Vulcan."

**=/\=**

The assassin scrutinized his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not a blond hair was out of place and the edges of his silicone mask blended smoothly into his skin. He flexed his jaw, testing the strength of the adhesive. It was snug enough, though he'd have to be careful not to be too expressive, or else the mask would pucker and bulge in an unnatural way.

Stepping back, he straightened the short white coat he wore. The waiter's uniform was a bit too loose. The black jumpsuit he wore beneath helped to fill it out a little, but it still bagged in some areas. He could only hope that those who had worked closely with Kenneth Morris wouldn't notice or, if they did, would assume the chum had finally lost some weight.

He smirked. Morris definitely could have stood to lose a few pounds, but the blond waiter wouldn't have to worry about that now, would he?

Satisfied that his appearance was passable, the assassin inhaled deeply and stepped out of the bathroom. Adrenaline began to swell in his veins with each _bump-thump_ of his heart. "Showtime," he muttered under his breath as he made his way to the kitchens.

There was no one in the hallway, but he assumed Morris' pretentious gait anyway. One could never be too careful. He had been surprised on more than one occasion in past jobs by someone who wasn't where they were supposed to be. It was bothersome to have to silence a person before they could blow his cover. And the extra bodies? Well, that was a pain too.

Through the door to the kitchens, he was assaulted with the smells and sounds of meal preparation and the clanking of dishes as they were being washed. Chicken cacciatore with steamed vegetables tonight. One of his favorites. Too bad there wouldn't be time to sample any cuisine.

"Oy! Where ye been?" a gruff voice called out to him. His eyes traveled to the source: the rotund head chef. "You're a mite more than a few minutes late, Morris," the large man chastised, shaking a ladle at him. "The admiral's been callin' for his coffee an' I think he's a wee bit angry now. You'd better hurry, lad."

The assassin nodded without speaking. Having gotten the orders for this job only the night before, there hadn't been time to create a proper voice simulator. Fortunately, Morris appeared to be somewhat reclusive, so the assassin's silence wouldn't be too far out of character.

At the coffee station he poured a cup of the brew. He cast his eyes about to be sure no one was watching as he pulled a small tin box out of his vest. Inside there were two cubes of poison-dipped sugar. He dumped them into the coffee and stirred in some creamer, according to the admiral's preferences.

"Laddie, you'd better get your arse in there before he has your neck!" the chef barked at him.

The assassin waved his acknowledgment and placed the mug on a small silver tray. He pocketed the tin box before leaving the station. It wouldn't do to leave behind questionable items.

Carrying the tray in one hand, he swung the door to the dining room. His heart pounded a little harder as the anticipation grew to new heights. It made him feel so…_alive_.

"It's about time!" Admiral Forrest snapped as the assassin stepped into the room. "What took so damn long?!"

The assassin managed what he hoped was a small, apologetic smile as he brought the tray to the oversized table. The admiral was alone, sitting in an ornate high back chair with a scattered stack of PADDs before him. He barely looked up as he grabbed the mug and took a sip. The assassin stepped back and waited.

Time stretched in ever slowing seconds as the admiral took absent swallows of the poisoned drink. Each _bump-thump_ pulsing in the assassin's ears was a warning that at any moment everything could go awry. He scanned the room planning contingencies. _Drink faster_, he silently willed the admiral.

Finally Forrest grunted, looking into the mug with an expression of mild surprise. He glanced up and noticed "Morris" was still there. "Get me another one of these," he demanded, holding out the mug and returning to his work.

The assassin took slow, measured steps forward as he calculated the time needed for the poison to take effect. He took the mug as he replied in a low voice, "Certainly, sir." A grim smile pulled the lips of his mask upward. He sounded nothing like Morris.

Forrest's eyes widened in stunned understanding. "You've killed me," he hissed. He opened his mouth again, but whatever he had planned to say died in his throat as his face contorted in agony. The assassin stepped behind the dying man, holding him in his chair as his body began convulsing, and placed a hand over his mouth to silence him as the pain reached its apex.

"Nothing personal, sir," the assassin whispered, "it's just business." The only reply from the admiral was a muffled choke as he arched his back. Then he slumped into the chair, completely still. The assassin waited a few more heartbeats before releasing Forrest. He pressed fingers against the admiral's neck, searching for a pulse. There was nothing. He dragged the body from the chair and laid it on the floor.

"Help!" The assassin screeched to hide his non-Morris voice. "I think he's had a heart attack!"

He beat against Forrest's chest, pretending at CPR as the doors from the hallway and kitchens burst open. Guards and kitchen staff spilled into the room, and at once there was a cacophony of yelling and accusations. Someone shoved the assassin aside and took over performing resuscitation on the admiral. When the assassin was certain no one was paying attention to "Morris," he snatched the mug from the table and backed toward the kitchen. Once through the door, a starter pistol went off in his mind.

_Run!_

And run he did, through the empty kitchen that sizzled and bubbled and steamed with pots and pans unattended, and through the back hallway which was mercifully devoid of stragglers. Each swift step kept time with the staccato _bump-thump_ of his heart. His entire body tingled as the wave of adrenaline reached its crest. He felt utterly invincible.

He reached an underused storage room and slipped in, quietly locking the door. It was frigid, and he shuddered as he stripped out of the white uniform, shoving it into a garbage incinerator, along with the mug and the tin. Within seconds the mask and wig were added to the pile. He pulled the door shut and pressed the execute command. As the incinerator roared to life, he allowed himself only a moment to enjoy the warmth that radiated from it. There were voices in the hall now.

_Bump-thump._

Behind a stack of flour barrels, he retrieved a pair of boots and a black pack. He slipped on the boots, tying them with practiced speed. Soon his legs were in the pack harness and he pulled it over his shoulders, clasping the straps across his chest. The voices grew louder.

_Bump-thump. Bump-thump._

He crouched in a runner's start and sprinted toward the window he had propped open earlier, knowing that if he miscalculated even a centimeter it would be his end. The door knob rattled.

_Bump-thump. Bump-thump. Bump-thump._

The assassin launched himself through the window in a dive just as the door banged open. A broad grin pulled at his lips as he felt the rush of free fall. He had gotten away again—as always—but the thrill of it all never got old.


	2. Awakening to Reality

**WARNING: **There is some violence in this first scene, against a woman. (Who, in all honesty, you may or may not be sympathetic towards at all.) I DO NOT CONDONE THIS TYPE OF BEHAVIOR. Nor the scheming, backbiting, murdering, maiming, cursing, immoral, dishonest, etc. behavior that nearly every character in the Mirror Universe engages in (even in the canon version).

If you are disturbed by these elements, I have other fantastic Enterprise fanfics that don't have any of this kind of stuff in it. You might want to mosey on back to my profile and check those out. It won't hurt my feelings a bit. :)

Those of you who stay, you have been warned. It's gonna be like this pretty much for the entire ride (with brief respites here and there). Darkness abounds.

Special thanks as always to **HopefulRomantic** for beta services.

* * *

**Chapter One**  
_Awakening to Reality_

* * *

Something was wrong.

Lieutenant Hoshi Sato sat in the mess hall, idly stirring her coffee. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was off on the _ISS Enterprise_. She cocked her head, concentrating on the ambient background noise. The ship was in fine condition, throbbing, humming, and beeping the way it ought to be. And yet, something was off-key in the tuneless song of the _Enterprise_. After listening intently for a few more moments, Hoshi began to wonder whether the dissonance was mechanical at all. Understanding blossomed as she considered the ship's crew. Some_thing_ wasn't wrong on the _ISS Enterprise_. It was some_one_.

But who?

She took a sip from her mug and observed those around her. There were a few crewmen from Gamma shift, finishing their final meals before returning to quarters to rest. Hoshi knew the names of each, their likes, dislikes, and a few of their deepest secrets. The communications officer never underestimated a lower enlisted. They were the most hungry for promotion, and therefore, the most dangerous. Just like her.

In the corner, Ensign Mayweather was quietly attacking his scrambled eggs as he took furtive glances at the others. The boomer was an encryption that Hoshi had yet to decipher. She knew very little of him, only that those who attempted to challenge him for his coveted bridge position usually died an agonizing death. After only a cursory study, Hoshi decided he wasn't the dissonant note she was seeking. Although, he was one to be watched.

Hoshi moved onto Crewman Cutler, who was at the buffet, scooping steaming oatmeal into her bowl. Hoshi dismissed her easily. She saw nothing in the young woman's body language that was any different than her typical dull slouch. That left the newly promoted Sergeant Cole, who sat with her back to the door as she sipped her own coffee. Cole was alone. Strange. The cocky MACO always had at least a couple of comrades-in-arms with her. Hoshi ran her finger over the lip of her mug as she scrutinized the sergeant. Cole's lips curled in a distracted smirk—clearly she was pleased with herself. But she wasn't the note singing off-key.

The door to the mess hall opened, interrupting Hoshi's thoughts. In the frame stood Commander Tucker, his jaw tense, cold fury in his pale eyes. That particular expression brought dread to many who had witnessed the engineer's wrath in action. Who was foolish enough to cross him this time? Hoshi's morning just became significantly more interesting.

The commander's eyes landed on Sergeant Cole and his lip curled with silent growl. Interesting. What had Tucker's former lover done to earn his ire? Perhaps something to do with his pet Vulcan. Settling back in her chair, Hoshi made no move to warn the other woman.

Tucker crossed the room and grabbed the back of Cole's uniform, surprising her in mid-sip. Before the MACO could react, he heaved her into the nearest bulkhead. Hoshi bit her lip, trying to hide a smile. She had forgotten how strong the commander was. Too bad he had never been interested, or else Hoshi might be tempted to dip into that well.

Cole gasped for air, drawing Hoshi's attention back to the scene. The soldier had managed to stay on her feet and was turning toward her attacker when Tucker punched her in the face with such force that it slammed her head into the wall. This time Cole collapsed to the floor. Around the room, chairs scrapped and crashed as crewmen scrambled to exit. Hoshi stole a quick glance and found only she and Mayweather remained.

"T'Pol thinks I shouldn't kill you," Tucker said, his tone deadly calm as he held a bloodied Cole up against the bulkhead. He pressed his knife against her throat. "But me? I'm thinking that any soldier who sends someone else to do her dirty work is the kind of coward who doesn't deserve to live."

Hoshi smirked. That explained the sergeant's missing companions.

Cole managed a hoarse laugh which turned into a coughing fit. "The little _Vulcan_ have some trouble?"

"You see now, that's the funny part." Tucker's mouth widened in an unsettling smile. "It's your three boy-toys who're warming beds in sickbay now. They were no match for her."

Cole scowled at the engineer.

"Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't kill you, _Sergeant_." His knife bit into Cole's neck and a small bead of crimson slid down the length of the blade. Hoshi held her breath, grinning in anticipation. Would he do it?

"Is there a problem, Commander?" The captain's steady voice interrupted from entrance to the mess hall.

Tucker moved with such speed that Hoshi barely noticed his knife flying through the air before it sank into the door frame with a loud _thunk_, missing Archer's face by mere inches. The captain didn't flinch, but instead glared at the chief engineer. Hoshi's eyes darted back to the commander. Cole was now on the ground, with Tucker's phase pistol pointed at her face, his finger tense on the trigger. When Cole tried to stand, he kicked her in the stomach, hard. Hatred darkened his features, so acute it made Hoshi shudder. Was this the expression he wore when he slit Jon's throat?

It was almost more frightening than anything Reed had once had in his repertoire.

"Commander!" Jon yelled. For the length of two heartbeats, Hoshi was certain that Tucker would shoot Cole before answering him. The tension in the room was nearly suffocating. Jon must have had the same thought; he pulled his own pistol out and trained it on the engineer. "I _asked_ if there was a problem, Tucker."

The commander finally turned to face Jon, still aiming his weapon at Cole. He didn't speak right away, as if deciding whether Jon would actually shoot him if he killed her. A part of Hoshi hoped Tucker would pull the trigger, just so she could see what happened.

"No problem, Cap'n," Tucker said, raising his hands in the air. "Sergeant Cole and I were just talking." Everything seemed to breathe again as the tension began abating from the mess hall. Hoshi felt both disappointed and relieved.

The MACO quickly scrambled to her feet. She threw Tucker a contemptuous glare but remained silent.

He smiled that disturbing smile again. "I think we understand each other now. Right, Sergeant?" The commander's voice sounded congenial enough, but rage still burned in his eyes.

"Perfectly," Cole answered through clenched, bloodied teeth. She turned to the captain who gave her a slight nod and then walked out of the mess hall in a miserable imitation of her usual swagger.

After the door hissed shut, Jon pulled the knife from the wall. "Is this an official challenge, Tucker?" he asked in a quiet voice. Hoshi's breath caught. Everything became interesting again.

Tucker paused, his mouth set in a grim line. "Depends," he said.

"On what?"

"How many more times your new science officer gets attacked."

Now Jon was silent as he spun the point of the blade against his fingertip. When he looked at the commander again, his expression was tight. "That Vulcan is your weakness, Trip."

Tucker took his knife from the captain. "That's where you've got it wrong, Jon," he said as he sheathed it. "She's my strength."

Jon snorted.

Tucker flexed the hand that he'd used to punch Sergeant Cole. "I won't hesitate to become captain of this ship if I find that's the only way I can keep her safe," he replied, giving Jon a meaningful look before walking out the door.

Jon glanced around the mess hall, noticing for the first time that he had an audience. Mayweather concentrated on his breakfast, acting as if he had witnessed none of it. When the captain's eyes met Hoshi's, she casually returned his gaze, tilting her head with a small shrug. Jon grunted before walking out.

Oh yes, this had all been very interesting, but not in the way that Hoshi had anticipated. She now knew which note was not ringing true on the ship, and that note was Commander Charles Tucker the Third.

The question was _how_ the commander was off. Certainly his odd relationship with the Vulcan played a part. Hoshi was convinced she was missing something else, though. No matter. In time she would ferret out all of Tucker's secrets.

And she would find a way to use them to her advantage.

She grinned as she took a sip of her coffee. Hoshi liked puzzles very much, the more challenging the better.

**=/\=**

They weren't just going to beat her senseless.

Trip had been on his way to report for duty when he felt T'Pol's alarm through the bond. The image of three male soldiers pressing her toward an empty corridor flashed through the conduit between their minds. Before Trip could run to defend his wife, though, T'Pol informed him abruptly that she had handled the situation. She was fine. Her attackers, on the other hand, not so much. The message had been delivered through the bond in her usual detached tone, with a suggestion that Trip continue on to Engineering without worry.

But he couldn't just go to work as if nothing had happened. In those images, he had recognized the feral grins and the black anticipation flickering in the eyes of all three men and understood what T'Pol hadn't.

They weren't just going to rough up his wife. They were going to _rape_ her.

Another epiphany struck him on the heels of that revelation. The three MACOs had not acted on their own. They were too low in the ship's hierarchy to risk attacking the first officer's woman. Someone had sent them after T'Pol, and Trip knew exactly who that someone was. Amanda Cole. A blinding supernova of rage burned through him as he searched the ship for the conniving piece of trash.

_She wants a challenge? So be it. _And Trip had answered that challenge with a vengeance.

As he left the mess hall, though, he felt oddly deflated, his anger cooled. When he had faced Amanda, with her scowling features bloodied from his fist, he could have easily killed her. He hadn't been that livid since he had nearly taken Archer's life. Though Trip was infamous for his temper, it was an act more often than not—a tool he wielded to incite fear and respect.

Today his anger had been very real, and it had turned his stomach. Once, he might have found a challenge like this exhilarating—a moment where everything became sharper and more colorful as the adrenaline sang through his veins. He had never been a murderous man, not like Reed, but Trip had been seduced by power. There was a thrill that came from walking the corridors of the _Enterprise_ with crewmen scrambling to stay out of his way. He had loved it. But then, that had been when he lived only to climb to the top, careless of the people he crushed and throats he slit to get there.

That had also been before Sim had left his ghost in Trip's head—and before a petite Vulcan had somehow broken through the barriers of his heart.

It was strange how the same universe which had given Trip this life—a life that didn't allow any type of compassion or decency—had also given him the reasons to find his humanity again. He was growing weary of playing the game on _Enterprise_. Even spying for the Reformists had lost its allure. But Trip couldn't just scoop up his wife and walk away from all of this intrigue and violence.

The incessant throbbing in his right hand shook the depressing thoughts from his mind. He looked at it, flexing his sore fingers until he saw the splatter of Amanda's blood on the cuff of his sleeve. Anger and disgust flared up in his chest. The fact that Amanda had gone after T'Pol hadn't surprise Trip. _How_ the MACO had done it, though... She wasn't fit to live.

Turning, he stalked toward his quarters. Crewmen flattened themselves against the bulkhead as he passed, probably in response to the rumors of his face-off with Amanda. It didn't take long for news to spread on the ship—especially when a challenge was involved. Good. The sooner everyone learned what happened when they messed with Commander Tucker's woman, the better.

T'Pol stood on the other side of his cabin door, eyes narrowed just a fraction. Trip was so relieved to verify with his own eyes she was unharmed that he didn't care how pissed she was. Without a word, he pulled her to him and pressed his lips over hers, tasting her familiar, exotic flavor.

He still hadn't figured out just how his relationship with T'Pol had gone from raging lust to something so much deeper. Initially, he'd signed up to be her life mate more for the promise of fantastic sex for the rest of his days than anything else. Somewhere in the short time they had been linked, he'd started to fall in love with her.

Finally coming up for air, Trip tightened his embrace and rested his forehead against hers. "You're okay," he said.

"I was never in any danger" Her tone was cool.

Yeah, she was definitely angry. Trip sensed it through the bond. "What's wrong?" he asked, already guessing the answer.

T'Pol raised a brow. "You blocked me."

"You taught me how," he replied with a half-smile.

Her eyes widened. "You blocked me," she repeated, "completely."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was…unsettling." When she used that word, she really meant it had terrified her. In spite of all her declarations that Vulcans didn't experience fear, Trip knew better.

_I do _not_ experience fear._

The words pressed gently against his mind. She was testing to see if the bond was open to her again.

_Yeah, right. And I'm the emperor._ He sent the sarcastic thought back to her.

"You cannot do that again," she said out loud, looking up at him with an open vulnerability that she rarely showed.

"I was protecting you. I haven't been this angry since…" He left the sentence unfinished, knowing that, through their first mind-meld, she had experienced the last time he'd been consumed by this raging inferno. "I… I can't let that spill over to you."

"You are being illogical."

Trip wasn't sure if he wanted to groan or laugh. That was always her pat answer when she didn't like what he'd said. "Darlin', you have plenty enough emotions to suppress without adding mine to the mix." He gave her a gentle squeeze. "'Sides, just the sight of you being unharmed made it all better. No harm, no foul."

Her eyes glittered dangerously. "You do not understand. After I was attacked, you shielded yourself so fully I was unable to find you. You no longer existed. I was concerned you would take irrational action and endanger your life. I had no means with which to prevent you. I had no way to know if you were in jeopardy."

_If you had been killed, I would not have known_. She finished through the bond.

Trip didn't know what to say. He hadn't tried to shut out T'Pol. Sure, he had thrown up his mental blockades to keep her from talking him out of what had to be done, but he hadn't known how completely he'd cut her off. No wonder she was upset.

_I am not upset._

_Liar._

"You must control your temper," she replied.

Trip grimaced and let her go. "Listen, I understand this all looks like some irrational outburst to you, but you've been on this ship, what? A month? You have no idea what it takes to survive here. I can't ignore open challenges like that."

"Getting yourself killed will solve nothing."

He glared at her. "Gimme a little more credit, darlin'. I know how to handle myself. Do you think I got to be first officer by avoiding fights? It doesn't work like that. Maybe it's not logical, but that's the way it is."

T'Pol studied him. "You don't care for it."

"Of course not." He snorted. "But when the alternative is a dagger in my back, what do you expect me to do?"

"There are other ways."

Trip threw up his hands. The woman was like a dog with a bone. "What other ways, T'Pol? If I had done nothing, do you think the attacks would have stopped? I don't care how good you are with your Vulcan martial arts, eventually someone will to get to you. Maybe there'll be so many of them that you're overwhelmed. Or maybe someone will just stun you when you're distracted and…" He couldn't say the words, his anger rising at the unfinished thought. "It won't stop. It'll _never_ stop if I don't make a clear statement like I did this morning."

Her eyes widened further as he felt her pick through his memories from his encounter with Amanda. She remained silent as she processed this new understanding of life on board the _ISS Enterprise_.

"You're in _my_ world now," he said in a tired voice. "God knows I'll regret every day you have to live in this hellhole with me, and maybe someday you'll hate me for it… But I promise you I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if sometimes I have to be someone we both despise."

T'Pol searched his eyes for a long silent moment. She reached up and stroked his cheek with the back of her first two fingers. He felt the depth of her affection in that simple touch. "Veh ken-tor," she whispered.

_I understand._

Imperial Standard lacked the weight those words had in her native tongue. Through the bond, Trip felt the breadth of her acceptance. He kissed her again, letting it linger as long as possible. When they broke apart, he smiled down at her. She was becoming everything to him, and he would do anything to protect her, for the rest of his life.

Sighing, he caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. "As much I'd like to stay like this all day, we'd better get back to the trenches before they come searching for us."

"Indeed." T'Pol's mild disappointment trickled through the bond. "I must report to my station." She held out two fingers which he met with his. Trip felt a brief flood of emotions so joyful and intense that it almost rivaled sex. Almost.

He watched her as she walked to the door, licking his lips at the fine view he got. T'Pol glanced back at him, raising a brow in amusement briefly before leaving.

When the door slid closed after she left, he whispered, "Be safe."

**=/\=**

Everything had gone to hell.

That was Jon's first thought when he read the communiqué. He let out a litany of profanity while he paced his small ready room. This had all started with that Romulan ruse and then kept going downhill from there. He snatched the decanter from his top shelf, poured himself two fingers of bourbon, and downed it in a single gulp. The warm buzz of the alcohol did nothing, though, to quiet the rawness of his frustration. Jon wanted to smash the glass against his desk.

Admiral Forrest was dead.

His death had come at a damned inconvenient time. Jon now had to shore up any clout he might have left with the remaining admiralty to keep his head above water. He had no delusions that Command would give him the opening left by Forrest, despite being the captain of the Empire's flagship—not after the debacle with the Vulcans. Not to mention Reed's almost-successful mutiny.

No, he was going to have to grovel to keep the center chair on _Enterprise_'s bridge, and that wasn't even the worst of it. Jon's new commanding officer was Admiral Richard Black, the very man who had likely ordered the mutiny in the first place.

Then there was Tucker's display in the mess hall. Jon should have let the engineer take out Sergeant Cole. She had made a stupid move out of jealousy and deserved exactly what Tucker had wanted to mete out. Jon had stayed the engineer's hand, not out of pity for Cole, but to remind his first officer who was in charge of this ship.

But the power play in the mess hall had backfired, and Hoshi and Mayweather had been there to witness Tucker's thinly-veiled threat. That was going to be nearly as damaging to Jon as the time Tucker slipped a blade across his neck.

If the crew believed Jon was in command because Tucker didn't want the job, then Jon would have to show them otherwise. The first officer wanted to threaten him? Fine. Let him try. Jon wasn't out of tricks yet.

The comm beeped. "What is it?" Jon asked, annoyed at the interruption.

"Lieutenant Sato to see you, sir," one of his guards announced over the speaker.

Jon ran his hand over his face and sighed. "Send her in."

Hoshi sauntered into the office with her usual sensuous gait. Jon had wondered more than once if the woman even knew how to walk without broadcasting her sexuality like a flashing welcome sign. When she reached him, she ran her fingers over his chest and shoulders.

He pushed her hands away. "Not now, Hoshi."

She threw him a petulant look. "My, aren't we in a bad mood? Was it something Tucker said?"

Jon raised his hand and she flinched, in spite of her smirk. He glared down at her, and after a moment, dropped his arm.

"Are you seriously threatened by him?" Hoshi asked, disbelief coloring her tone.

He shook his head, grabbing the communiqué from his desk. With a grim expression, he tossed it at her.

Her eyebrows shot up as she read the text. "Well," she said, handing it back to him, "isn't that an interesting development."

"I don't suppose with your special…_friendship_…with Reed that you happened to make any good connections among Black's people." Saying the words left a bitter taste in Jon's mouth. He still hadn't forgiven her that indiscretion.

"I'll see what I can do." For once her face was devoid of her perpetual "come hither" expression.

"Good." He nodded toward the door, letting her know that the meeting was over. "Your place on this ship depends on it."

"Oh, I know that, Captain." Hoshi gave him a sultry grin as she backed out of the room.

Jon sat down at his desk, cradling his head with his hands. It was going to be a long day.


	3. Let the Games Begin

**A/N:** Thanks a million to **HopefulRomantic** for beta services!

* * *

**Chapter Two**  
_Let the Games Begin_

* * *

"Ah, Commander Tucker." Phlox greeted Trip as he walked into sickbay.

It was the last place Trip wanted to be, but the pain in his hand was making it impossible to work. He gave the doctor a curt nod and sat down on one of the biobeds.

"I've been expecting you." Phlox's tone was congenial as he crossed the room to Trip, medical tricorder in hand. "Two days ago, actually."

Trip snorted. "I take it you heard."

"About the altercation in the mess hall?" The doctor smiled as he began scanning the commander. "Indeed I have. You know as well as anyone else that there are no secrets on a starship." There was something in Phlox's tone that gave Trip pause.

"Yeah."

"Which hand is it?" the doctor asked. Trip held up his swollen right hand and Phlox ran the tricorder over it. "Miss Cole paid a visit herself. The damage from that single hit was surprisingly extensive." He glanced up, admiration plain on his alien features. "Well done, Commander."

Trip grunted, wishing the Denobulan wouldn't be so talkative. He'd rather forget about the whole incident.

"It's a pity that the captain intervened—hold still!" Phlox snapped when Trip clenched his hand. The tricorder beeped. "You have a fracture of the fifth metacarpal. To be expected considering where you struck the sergeant. There is a slight angulation, however. I'm going to have to set it before I can finish treating it."

"Do what you've gotta do, Doc." Trip shrugged. "I need to get to work."

"Very well."

Phlox yanked the commander's little finger while forcibly pressing against the side of his hand. The pain was excruciating, sending slices of agony up Trip's arm. "AH! Goddammit, Phlox!" he bellowed, nearly leaping off the biobed. "A warnin' woulda been nice!"

The doctor gave Trip one of his unnatural grins. "For _you_, perhaps."

"You sadistic son of a—"

"Now, now, Commander. Must we really resort to juvenile name-calling? Hmm?" Phlox crossed the room and opened one of the storage cabinets. "You'll have to wear a splint for twenty-four hours while the knitting agent adheres to the bone."

"Fine." Trip clenched his teeth. "Just finish up so I can get the hell outta here."

"I also heard that you had an interesting exchange with the captain," Phlox said casually as he began treating the commander's injury.

Trip frowned. Where was Phlox going with this? "Maybe I did."

"I take it, then, that your unusual alliance is nearing an end."

"What do you mean?" Trip felt a prick of anxiety at the doctor's statement.

Phlox didn't answer immediately. He placed Trip's hand in the brace and roughly strapped it on, causing the commander to yelp another curse. "No, I imagine that lately you've been too busy with your new friend." The doctor brought his piercing blue eyes to meet Trip's. "You forget that you should always keep one ear to the deck plating."

"You're saying I've missed something?"

"Members of the crew are racing to pick sides, Commander." Phlox gave Trip a meaningful look before he ran the tricorder over the injury once more. Apparently satisfied, the doctor set aside the device and smiled. "There you go. You are now well on your way to recovery."

Trip only half-heard the doctor. _I won't hesitate to become captain of this ship if I find that's the only way I can keep her safe._ That's what he had said to Archer in the mess hall. He'd forgotten it as soon as his fury had passed, but a statement like that? That was an invitation for war.

Son of a _bitch_.

He'd been careless, and now he had to do damage control—if that were even possible. If not… Trip felt the cords of this turbulent life tighten around him.

He muttered a grudging thanks to the doctor and headed out the door, already calculating the strength of his alliances. He didn't want to take on Archer, but Trip would have no choice if the captain had taken his threat seriously. The honeymoon was over.

Trip's life was about to get infinitely more complicated—_again_.

**=/\=**

_Report to Captain Archer at 0800_.

The call had come early that morning. Kelby didn't even bother to guess what the captain wanted now. After helping him end Reed's mutiny, Archer had gone back to ignoring him just like before. In truth, Kelby hadn't minded being left alone all that much. The stress of nearly becoming a pawn between two powerful men had taken its toll. The month-long respite had been more than welcome. Kelby was smart enough to know, though, that it would be short-lived.

He stood outside the captain's ready room, waiting as one of the guards announced his arrival. At Archer's gruff consent, the door slid open, and Kelby's heart pounded as he stepped inside. The captain leaned against his desk with his arms across his chest. He appeared casual, but there was a tension in his body—like a wildcat poised to strike. Commander Tucker stood near Archer, his arms rigidly at his sides with a dark, unreadable expression. Kelby resisted the urge to swallow.

"Lieutenant Kelby. Thank you for joining us," Archer said with a nod.

"Reporting as ordered, sir."

Archer grinned, though it didn't quite make it to his eyes. "Don't look so worried, Lieutenant. You're about to get what you deserve."

Kelby curled his lips in a facsimile of a smile.

"I remember telling you how much I value loyalty," the captain continued, giving a brief but significant look to Tucker.

"Yes, sir. You were very clear." Kelby glanced at the first officer.

The commander narrowed his eyes, but his face remained a mask. There was so much veiled hostility in the room, one wrong word could set off a blood bath. The scuttlebutt on the ship must be true, then. The two men were clearly rivals once more. And here Kelby was, smack dab in the middle of it all. Again. So much for the break from deadly politics_._

"I've conferred with Trip and he agrees that you've earned this." Archer tossed a small box at him. As he caught it, Kelby was very aware of the captain's casual use of Tucker's first name. Another quick look at the chief engineer told him that it hadn't escaped the commander's notice either.

Kelby glanced inside the box and saw new rank pips. Why now, after weeks of nothing? Kelby was sure it wasn't just about Archer keeping his promise.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant Commander." The captain held out his hand.

Kelby shook it and gave him another weak smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Congratulations, Kelby." Tucker said, but didn't offer to shake. For the first time, Kelby noticed the simple, white brace on the commander's hand. He had heard of Tucker's rumble with Sergeant Cole—a reminder that Tucker was not someone to cross. Then again, neither was the captain.

"All right, enough with the fanfare," Archer announced with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Get back to work."

"Aye, sir."

Kelby saluted and made a hasty exit, relieved to be out of the lion's den. Getting down to Engineering and losing himself in a Jefferies tube somewhere sounded very appealing at the moment. They couldn't force Kelby to choose sides if they couldn't find him. He smiled as he imagined emerging from his hideout after the dust had settled—both men dead and Kelby free to run the engine room as he pleased. Wouldn't that be nice?

"Where's the fire, Kelby?" Commander Tucker's voice startled him out of his daydream.

"Just heading to work, sir," he answered, apprehensive. The commander was going to make a sales pitch. It was Archer versus Reed all over again—only Reed's replacement in this new power match was, in many ways, more dangerous. Tucker was far more attuned to the subtle nuances of the crew, and unlike Reed, he was not impulsive—at least not when it came to this particular game.

The commander clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Hold your horses there. The ship's not gonna blow up in the next few minutes."

Kelby stifled his anxiety. "Of course, sir." He let Tucker set a leisurely pace and waited for the commander's proposal.

"My men tell me that you did a decent job while I was…_indisposed_ for a bit." Tucker gave him an appraising look.

Kelby wanted to snort. _My men._ That was a crystal clear statement if there ever was one. "I was just doing my duty, sir."

"I heard you did a little more than that."

Kelby shrugged.

"You know, it took a while to find out exactly what happened during my absence," the commander said. "And it's got me thinking… There's something kinda funny in all of this."

Kelby waited, but Tucker didn't continue. "Sir?"

"Well, I'm just wondering why it took the cap'n so long to give you a promotion when Sato got one right away. The way I hear it, you did about as much to help him as she did—even more." Tucker gave him a sardonic grin as they stopped in front of the turbolift. "Maybe it's just that you lack certain…assets. But then again, it is kind of an interesting question, isn't it?"

Kelby glanced at him. Was the commander implying that Archer was trying to buy Kelby's loyalty with the promotion? _Too late, Tucker, I've already figured that one out._ The hiss of the turbolift door saved him from having to make a comment.

"Your actions saved my life, Lieutenant," Tucker said in a low voice as Kelby stepped onto the lift. "That's the type of thing _I_ don't forget." He paused, giving Kelby a penetrating gaze. "Think about it."

The commander backed away as the door closed, and Kelby stared at the wall, understanding dawning on him. Tucker wasn't telling him that Archer was buying the lieutenant's loyalty, but that the commander, himself, was the reason Kelby got the promotion.

Kelby was suddenly tired of being in the center of a tug-a-war. He'd play both sides for now—like he did before—but this time, he wasn't going to leave anything to chance. He'd find their weaknesses and he'd turn the tables on them.

Kelby was determined to never again enter the den of lions as a mouse.

**=/\=**

Humans were illogical. In the month since T'Pol had come to live on the _Enterprise_, she found herself amazed that the species had not long since succumbed to extinction. She had witnessed acts motivated by anger, greed, hatred, and any number of powerful, disturbing emotions. Logic rarely made an appearance, if at all. She wondered if this was what it had been like on Vulcan before Surak cooled the volatile nature of her people.

T'Pol could have easily written off the whole of humanity as worthless, except for Trip. She was privy to what he had done and continued to do in the name of survival, but she also knew it did not define him. It was only logical to assume that there were other humans like him, humans who felt compelled to lead such disagreeable lives for the promise of safety. Of course, there were also those who thrived on the fear and the darkness. Amanda Cole was certainly one of the latter. T'Pol found the woman who had once shared Trip's bed to be exceedingly displeasing.

T'Pol abruptly put an end to these ruminations, quelling the fire of jealousy and ire that always pushed against her calm whenever Sergeant Cole crossed her thoughts. When T'Pol had lived among her own people, she had not adequately appreciated how much simpler life had been.

Simple like—

Koss's face, twisted with hostility, flashed in her mind, as it always did when she thought of her previous life, and her skin pebbled with a sudden chill. T'Pol gripped the table in front of her, trembling at the unsettling image. She was grateful she was alone.

_You okay, darlin'? _Trip's voice was like a gentle breeze through the bond, calming the turmoil that had attempted to overwhelm her.

_I am fine. _She would be—eventually.

_I saw him in your mind. D'you need me?_ Worry tinged his thoughts.

Her _adun_ felt helpless every time she recalled the horror of what Koss had done. The memories would become less intrusive over time. She refused to let Koss have any power over her, even after his death. _No_, she answered Trip, _it is not affecting my ability to work_.

_All right, but if it happens again, I'm there._

_I know._ Warmth infused her as his touch left her mind. T'Pol might spend the rest of her days among these senseless creatures, but her future was immeasurably better with Trip. He would protect her, keep her safe.

Taking a deep breath, T'Pol picked up the PADD she had dropped and resumed her work. Today it was cataloging different species of plant life. The science team didn't trust T'Pol to do more than menial tasks. She never objected, however, choosing to follow Trip's advice to keep her head down and work hard. Although she was severely underused, T'Pol was content to be free of power plays for the time being.

"T'Pol, is it?" A deep voice startled her, and T'Pol turned find the ship's pilot, Mayweather, facing her, leaning against the bulkhead. He was scraping underneath his fingernails with his dagger.

"Yes." She considered asking how she could be of assistance, but was stopped by the way his eyes kept roaming over her form.

"I'm Ensign Mayweather—Travis." He didn't offer his hand like most humans did when greeting one another.

"I am aware of who you are."

Mayweather smiled. "Of course." He sheathed his knife. "You know, I've met some of your kind before. They were different from you, though."

T'Pol was uncertain how to respond to his ambiguous statement, and he seemed disinclined to expound further.

"I heard what you did to those bottom-feeder MACOs the other day." Mayweather looked her over again. "You've got some crazy-ass Vulcan mojo."

She could only assume he was referring to her hand-to-hand combat skills. "I have benefited from years of training."

"I'll bet." He gave her another smile. "What you did was pretty impressive, and we aren't easy to impress."

T'Pol raised her brow. "We?" Did he mean humans or some other group?

He stepped away from the wall. "I should probably let you get back to work. I just wanted to welcome you to _Enterprise_." Mayweather left the bay before she could respond.

The encounter was disquieting, but T'Pol didn't feel any immediate danger from the ensign. Later she would ask Trip to clarify what had transpired and whether or not she had unwittingly become part of the "game."

**=/\=**

Trip took a deep breath as he stood before his engineering crew. In the past, he hadn't doubted their loyalty to him; he'd always been fair, if not necessarily kind. Trip kept his promises, rewarded good work, and offered protection when needed. But now that he had a wife—a _Vulcan_ wife—he wasn't sure if some of his crew would see him as the turncoat others on _Enterprise_ made him out to be. It would only take one traitor in his crew to slip a knife between his ribs.

He glanced at Kelby on his left. The lieutenant commander was the real wild card of the bunch. Trip had never trusted his assistant chief engineer. Kelby had been the captain's addition to the crew and, Trip long suspected, was meant to replace the commander in the event of his untimely demise. They had always had a strained working relationship, but with the captain openly flexing the muscles of his authority, Trip needed to play nice—without Kelby getting too suspicious.

The first step in that process had been discovering the promise of promotion that Archer had given Kelby, but hadn't followed through on. Trip only had to ask the captain to approve a rank advancement for Kelby to inspire Archer to give it to the boy himself. Trip had expected that, and he had also expected that Kelby wouldn't be immediately won over by Archer's ploy. Now it was time for the next step.

"All right, boys and girls," Trip addressed the crew with a grin, "we've got a lot of things to go over. First, I'm sure you've noticed our man Kelby here is sporting another pip on his collar." He waved a hand at the other man. "It's a well-deserved promotion, especially since he saved my ass as well as Hess and Biggs." A few of the crewmen chuckled. "Now, I'm sure he knows he couldn't have done it without the rest of you, and maybe I'm speaking out of turn here, but I think he'd be glad to offer his thanks."

Kelby's cheeks colored. "Yes, of course."

Trip smacked him on the shoulder. "Good man." His heart beat a little faster in anticipation of his next announcement. He was about to take a big risk. "You all know that I have a lot of responsibility as both the first officer and the chief engineer." There were some nods. "Hell, if I had my way, I'd live down here 24/7. But it's better for all of us that I keep my job as second in command of this ship."

"Damn straight, Chief!" Rostov exclaimed.

Trip's grin broadened. "My first officer duties are gonna be taking a little more of my time for a while. So I'm counting on all of you to give your best to Lieutenant Commander Kelby, just like you did when I was gone. I take care of my people, and I expect that Kelby will take care of all of you as well. Is everyone clear?"

Several crew members gave shouts of assent; others nodded.

"Good," Trip said. "One last thing—we're docking with Jupitor station tomorrow, and they say _Enterprise _is due for a weapons refit. You all know what that means."

"Pansy-ass know-it-alls screwing up our engine room!" hollered Rostov, earning laughs from the rest of the group.

"That's right," Trip said. "We're all due for some leave, but I'm gonna have to keep a skeleton crew on rotation during our stay so those desk jockeys don't end up installing plasma injectors upside down. During your shift, be as _firm_ as you need to be. I don't want to spend the next six months undoing every screw-up those planet-bound boys think is an upgrade." He studied the faces before him and felt confident that they were all still in his pocket. "Dismissed." Trip watched with satisfaction as the crew hustled to their various posts and got to work. He really did wish he could just be the chief engineer and give the finger to _Enterprise_'s politics.

Trip turned to leave and found Kelby still rooted to his spot, confusion furrowing his brow. "Problem, Lieutenant Commander?"

Kelby glanced around, then leaned in and said in a quiet voice, "Did you just basically give me command of Engineering, sir?"

"Crew says you did a fine job in my absence." He narrowed his eyes at the younger man. "Unless you don't want the responsibility."

"That's not it at all." Kelby shook his head. "I'm just surprised, Commander."

"Everybody rewards loyalty, Kelby, no one more than me." Trip chewed the inside of his cheek. "Maybe what you did wasn't out of loyalty to me personally, but you took care of my people. You've earned my trust. As long as you don't lose that trust, life will be good for you."

"I understand." Kelby's expression was guarded.

Trip decided that a little bluntness couldn't hurt. "Look, we both know you my job, but I'm not interested in you challenging me right now. It'd be a waste of my time, and I'd lose a decent engineer." He drilled the point home with his eyes. "Understood?"

Kelby nodded, the muscles around his mouth tensing.

"What're you standing around for? I thought you wanted to run this show." Trip waved him off. "Get your ass to work already!"

Kelby trotted to one of the empty stations and began a diagnostic. Trip couldn't be sure he'd won over his assistant yet, but at the very least he had made it more difficult for Kelby to turn against him. That was better than nothing.

Now Trip had to figure out a way to get Hayes out of the brig before the MACOs swore fealty to Archer.


	4. Machinations & Manipulations

**A/N:** Thank you, **HopefulRomantic**, for beta services! :)

* * *

**Chapter Three**  
_Machinations and Manipulations  
_

* * *

Hoshi couldn't sleep. Jon's arm was draped across her bare middle as he snored softly into her hair. His cuddle was not a sign of affection—she was sure he was incapable of anything remotely romantic—but a reminder of whom she belonged to. She was a possession, a commodity that, after Reed's botched mutiny, Jon was unwilling to share. And for that reason, Hoshi was far from flattered by the recent rise in his attentiveness. She resented being treated like property, but the alternative… There was no alternative.

She gently pushed his arm away and slid out of bed. He mumbled something in his sleep, but she didn't care what he said. He was probably dreaming about killing Black or Tucker—or both. Hoshi rolled her eyes. Men and their bloodlust. Not that her hands were clean, but she knew that murder wasn't the only way to move up in the ranks. Manipulation, blackmail, and offering certain favors often worked better than flashing a weapon.

Speaking of blackmail… That reminded her of her plan to uncover Tucker's secrets. If she couldn't sleep, then she might as well be productive. Hoshi retrieved her discarded uniform from the floor and slipped it on. When she sat down on the bed to pull on her boots, Jon stirred again.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice thick and slurred.

"You snore. I'm going back to my quarters." It wasn't entirely untrue. She would go to her quarters eventually.

Jon propped himself up on his elbow and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "What if I don't want you to go?"

Hoshi thought about telling him that she didn't give a damn what he wanted, that she could come and go as she pleased. She knew, though, that he'd feel the need to reassert his authority, and she wasn't in the mood for one of their power games. She offered him a seductive smile. "That's sweet, Jon. Are you ready for another round?" She caressed his bare chest.

He studied her for a moment then shook his head. "No, you can go," he said, "on one condition."

She wanted to sigh. There was always something with these macho jerks, wasn't there? "What would that be?"

He leaned into her. "Whatever it is you're looking for," he answered against her ear, "you'll tell me when you find it." He pulled her face toward him until they were nose to nose. "Especially if it's something about Tucker."

Hoshi kept her expression neutral, but she was disturbed that he so easily suspected her true intentions. She had flown under his radar for so long, she wasn't sure how to handle this keen eye he recently developed. She tried to play innocent. "What are you talking about? I told you, I'm going to my quarters."

He grinned and brushed her cheek with his fingers. "Hoshi, Hoshi, Hoshi…I underestimated you before. I won't do it again." His hand traveled down to her neck. "You _will_ tell me what secrets you discover from now on." He squeezed her throat briefly to punctuate his order.

She didn't bother to hide her irritation now. "Of course, Captain." Venom laced her voice. "My safety as your woman depends on the strength of your position."

Jon laughed. "I know you don't believe that. You're like a cockroach. You'll always find a way to survive." He caught the hand she swung at him. "Don't be offended. I meant it as a compliment."

She opened her mouth make a snide remark, but he pressed his fingertips to her lips. "I have no illusions that you have any feelings for me, Hoshi," he said with uncharacteristic softness. "You use me. Now I want to use you."

She snorted. "You already do."

"Mm." His green eyes swept over her. "Yes, I do like using your body." He pressed his mouth over hers, tracing her lips with his tongue. When she tried to deepen the kiss, he pushed her back, wagging a finger at her. "You're trying to distract me."

He was right. Hoshi worried about how much further he was planning to tighten this leash he was placing on her. If they were going to be honest… "You can't blame a girl for trying." She shrugged.

"No, I can't." Jon smiled. "Getting back to the point: Any woman hungry for promotion can fulfill my physical needs." He traced her forehead. "What I want, Hoshi, is your brilliant mind."

"What's in it for me?" She'd be damned if all she got out of this bargain was the promise of continued protection.

"That," he said, "depends on what you bring me." He trailed kisses down her neck and she silently cursed her body for responding to his touch so readily. "I'll make it worth your while, Hoshi. You're ambitious like me. Together, we are unstoppable."

She shivered despite knowing that he was playing her, tempting her with what she wanted most of all: power. She didn't know what to make of this renewed life in him. He was sounding more like the Jonathan Archer she had seduced several years ago—focused, determined—and she found it enticing. But could she trust that he was cunning enough to keep Tucker at bay and work his way up the chain of command, especially with Admiral Black as his direct superior?

Fortunately, Jon mistook her silence as agreement. "Let me know what you find." He laid down without another word.

She left his quarters, shaken. Now the man she thought she knew best on this ship had surprised her, and surprises were never good. Hoshi would be wary of Jon until she understood the new rules of their relationship.

**=/\=**

Trip was already awake when his alarm chimed. He didn't know why he bothered to set it in the first place. Insomnia had been his constant companion since his academy days. He spent the last hour watching his wife as she sat cross-legged in front of bunch of flickering candles. She never understood why he liked watching her meditate, and he had a hard time explaining it himself. It was just…peaceful, quiet. It was different from everything else in his life.

The alarm chimed again, louder this time, and he shut it off. No rest for the weary_._ He tried to dress as quietly as he could; he didn't want to disturb T'Pol's meditation. If the middle of the night hadn't been the best time to make a discreet visit to the brig, he gladly would have spent the next two or three hours ogling his woman, unobserved.

_Not entirely unobserved, adun._

Startled by her unexpected voice in his mind, he caught his thumb in his uniform zipper. "Dammit!" He sucked on his wounded digit. T'Pol gazed up at him with a cocked brow. "I don't think I'm ever gonna get used to you randomly popping in my head like that."

"You will."

The confidence in her tone made him smile. He didn't know what she saw when she looked at him, but it must be a much better man than he really was.

"I assure you, I am unbiased," she replied as she stood.

He snorted. "You know, that's cheating—invading my mind, stealing my thoughts." He wrapped his arms around her, enjoying the feel of her warm body against his. "It's kinda sexy." He ran his tongue across his lip.

She lifted her brow again. "It is hardly an invasion when you are broadcasting—loudly."

"Broadcasting, huh? Is that what I'm doing?" His smile deepened.

"Yes. You are difficult to ignore." She tilted her head in the way she always did when she was making a joke.

He laughed. "Have I ever told you just how much it turns me on when you tease me?"

"You have made similar statements twenty-six times before." Amusement was plain in her eyes.

"Well, my grandma always said anything worth saying, bears repeating." Before she could respond, he planted his lips over hers. She tasted like heated spice and his hormones surged. If only he had a little more time… But there never was enough of it. He reluctantly ended the kiss. "I'll be back later."

She nodded, lifting her two fingers which he touched with his own. Her affection jumped across the contact, and he was pretty sure it was growing more every day, just as his feelings were for her. He watched as she settled back in front of her candles. She was serene and graceful—_beautiful_. And not in the "list of the most bang-worthy women" way. His wife was the whole package, a package he hadn't known existed before.

_Tick tock_. Time was tugging at him, still traveling at warp speed even though he'd rather have a few more moments at half-impulse. Sighing, he pulled his eyes away from T'Pol and leaned against the door frame. He had to steel himself for what he might face outside their quarters. Crossing the threshold into the corridor was like leaving heaven and landing in hell. He glanced at T'Pol one last time before he opened the door.

Rostov waited for him in the hallway, looking tired but alert with a phase rifle resting on his shoulder. He saluted Trip. "Sir."

"You're early," Trip said, slipping into the role of "tough boss" as he headed toward the brig. He didn't look to see if Rostov was following.

"You'd have my ass if I wasn't, Chief," Rostov replied. "And I worked hard for this ass—spent hours and hours in the gym doing squats and deadlifts. I'm not ready to give it up just yet."

Trip snorted. Everyone had their own way of dealing with people and surviving. Archer had his arrogance and ambition. Hoshi used her body. Trip wielded his temper like a dagger. And Rostov used humor to disarm others, to make them underestimate him.

"I'm not interested in your ass, Rostov." Trip rolled his eyes.

"Never said you were, Chief." Rostov grinned. "But it _is_ my defining feature. Without it, I just don't know who I am anymore."

Trip shook his head. The ensign would spend the rest of their walk composing an ode to asses if Trip didn't head him off. "How'd Kelby do yesterday?"

"He was competent." Rostov shrugged. "I thought he was going to have a coronary when you announced that you were putting him in charge."

"And the crew?" Trip was fairly certain that they had handled the change just fine, but if there was a problem, he didn't want to be left in the dark.

"I'd be lying, sir, if I said Kelby was a favorite. But after that whole Reed and Archer ordeal, he's endeared himself to us enough that no one's going to throw a knife at him—yet." Rostov grinned again. "And if we have to choose between having you as our chief or having you as our captain… Well, I don't think you need me to finish that sentence, sir."

Trip didn't frown despite the urge to do so. He couldn't let on that he was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of commanding more than the engineering team. He _had _meant for his crew to think he was making a play for the top position on _Enterprise—_and hell, if Archer wasn't going to let that threat go, Trip would have to. In truth, though, Trip saw taking the captain's chair as just one more chain binding him to a life he didn't want.

"Good," was all he said. They spent the last few steps to the brig in silence.

Lockup was guarded by Reed's security team rather than the MACOs. It would have been foolish for Archer to have MACOs guarding MACOs—especially their commander. Even imprisoned, Hayes inspired the same kind of loyalty in his underlings that Trip had always strived for with his own crew. Of all the people on _Enterprise_, the major was the most powerful of potential allies.

The crewman saluted with his fist over his heart as Trip approached.

"At ease." Trip returned the salute. He entered his security code on the keypad and the door slid open. Rostov followed him into the cramped quarters.

There was another security guard inside. He was holding his phase-rifle against his chest, his finger on the trigger as if he expected Hayes or the other soldiers in the brig to attempt an escape at any given moment. There was a lot of animosity between the two fighting forces on the ship. The folks in Security would be glad to have any excuse to shoot a MACO.

After exchanging salutes with the guard, Trip said, "You're dismissed."

The young man looked as if he were about to protest. "The _first officer_ gave you an order, crewman," Rostov said as he brought his rifle up and aimed it at the guard. "You tend to live longer when you follow orders. When you don't…" He waved his weapon.

The guard paled as he looked at the rifle, then up at Trip. "Yes, sir." He saluted one more time and left the brig.

Trip glanced at Rostov, and the ensign grinned back at him. "That was fun. I think I missed my calling. Maybe I should put in for a transfer to Security." His face twisted in a mock grimace as he seemed to think better of it. "Never mind. I don't want to be stuck working with those assholes every day."

"Probably best," Trip said. He turned to the two glass-enclosed cells. In the first one, four soldiers were sleeping, or attempting to, on the two bunks and the floor. It didn't look particularly comfortable. Major Hayes was in the second cell, alone. He was doing push-ups, and had been for a while, from the look of the sweat pooling on the floor beneath him.

Trip pulled a small device from his pocket and activated it. He had designed it to jam any listening bugs and audio feeds for video recordings within a twenty-meter radius. Satisfied it was working, he pressed the comm button for the major's cell. "Seems like a waste," he said, "exercising like that, when the captain holds your fate in his hands."

Hayes didn't look up or pause his rhythmic up-and-down. "It passes the time, sir." His voice was strained from the physical exertion.

"Makes sense, I suppose." Trip watched him perform a few more reps, trying to decide on the best approach. Hayes usually stayed out of Starfleet politics, which was why it had been surprising when he had sided with Reed. Trip found it less surprising after he discovered what had motivated the major to get involved.

In one fluid motion, Hayes went from performing a push-up to standing. "Can I help you, Commander?" He faced Trip with his hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart—the poster of a perfect soldier.

"I might be able to help you, Major." Trip stepped closer to the glass. "But I'll need something in return."

"If you'll excuse me for saying so, I don't think there is anything you can do for me, sir." Hayes's face betrayed no emotion.

"You'd be surprised." Trip smirked. "I know why you helped Reed with his mutiny."

Surprised widened the major's eyes before his expression became unreadable again.

"You've got a daughter who recently lost her mother in a horrible accident." Every muscle in Hayes's body tensed at Trip's words. "Fifteen is a bad age for a girl to be left to the mercy of the Empire. And Admiral Black offered to protect her, didn't he?" Trip leaned forward. "But the truth is, he's behind the accident in the first place. He's holding your girl hostage."

Hayes seemed to be staring through Trip. His composure could make a Vulcan proud. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters a lot." Trip shook his head. "Think about it. What's Black gonna do with your girl if Archer gets his way and you're executed?"

"Even if you could help her, sir," Hayes said in a tight voice, "there's nothing I can do for you if I'm dead."

"That's where I've got some good news for you, Major." Trip forced a smile. "You haven't heard the latest since you've been stuck in this hole. Admiral Forrest is dead. Black is our new CO. I'm guessing there won't be an execution." When Hayes didn't respond, Trip continued, "And now the bad news: You might get out of here, but as long as Black has Kristiana, you'll be his lackey."

"And you're offering to change that." Hayes's expression remained emotionless, but disbelief was clear in his tone.

"All you have to do is tell me where you want her, and I'll make it happen." Trip paused, pretending to weigh the possibilities, even though everything was already set up. "Maybe send her to your cousins in the boomer fleet? She'd be untouchable there."

The major's face darkened. "If you're able to get her away from the admiral, what assurances do I have that you won't hold her hostage yourself?"

Trip snorted in disgust. "I don't want your kid, Hayes. I want your gratitude, not your resentment."

Hayes eyed him for a long moment. "I'll want confirmation that she's safe."

Trip nodded. "I figured as much. You'll have it."

"And how do you want me to express my 'gratitude,' sir?"

Trip almost sighed in relief. They were on the down-slope of the negotiations, and he was pretty sure things would turn out the way he wanted. "The captain and I seem to be at odds again. I'm not looking to start a fight, but if one comes my way…" He left the sentence hanging.

"Understood, Commander." Hayes seemed to relax a fraction.

"I'll need few soldiers for protection. I don't trust Reed's men."

The major gave him a curt nod. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"That about covers it," Trip said. "Do we have a deal?"

Hayes sized up Trip before answering. "Yes, sir. We have a deal."

"Good."

Trip turned off the comm and deactivated the jamming device. He felt lighter as he left the brig with Rostov in tow. He nodded to the two guards flanking the door. "They're all yours," he told them as he passed.

On the way back to Trip's quarters, Rostov was uncharacteristically quiet. He looked at the ensign and found him staring back with new appraisal in his eyes. If Rostov knew truth—that it was the Reformists who were behind this endeavor—the ensign would gladly use that phase-rifle on him. Or maybe not. Trip studied the young man. Rostov didn't seem like the "for the glory of the Empire" type. He might make a good candidate for the—

Trip squashed the thought before it fully formed. He had too much to juggle already without having to worry about recruiting. He didn't want to be responsible for anyone but T'Pol and himself.

When they reached his cabin, Rostov leaned close to Trip and spoke in a low voice. "You really are going to do it, sir, what—" he glanced furtively down the corridor, "—you told him you would do."

"Have I ever made a promise I didn't keep?"

"Not that I'm aware of." Rostov gave him a broad grin. "Hot damn! I'm glad I'm not your enemy."

Trip wished he could be as thrilled as Rostov about all the power he was accumulating. "This all stays between you and me."

Rostov raised his hand. "Goes without saying, Chief." There was a twinkle in his eyes that said while he wouldn't share the details of the meeting between Trip and Hayes, he sure as hell was going to find a way to make people aware of Trip's long reach.

"Get some sleep, Rostov. We dock with Jupiter in the morning." Trip stifled a yawn. Sleep wasn't going to be hard to come by now, he was sure.

"Aye aye, sir!" Rostov saluted enthusiastically and jogged down the hallway. Trip stared after him, shaking his head, before opening his door. He hoped the ensign wouldn't rally the crew to a fever pitch just yet. Trip didn't want Archer to feel even more threatened.

Inside his quarters, the weight of tonight's scheming lifted from his shoulders. He was exhausted now that he didn't have to be on high alert. T'Pol was still meditating, and he projected a gentle "don't wanna talk about it right now" vibe through the bond, before setting up his mental shields. He'd let her pick through his brain tomorrow.

Trip sat at his console and typed a short message to Gardner, confirming that Hayes had taken the deal. Once it was sent and erased from the comm logs, he stripped out of his uniform and climbed into the bunk. He was vaguely aware of T'Pol slipping into bed next to him as he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

**=/\=**

His fists hurt, but Jonny wasn't going to stop hitting Grayson—not when Father was watching. The fight had started just after the 100-meter dash, when Grayson accused Jonny of tripping him. Grayson wouldn't take the accusation back, so Jonny did exactly what Father had always taught him—he defended his honor.

Grayson had gotten in a couple of hits, but after Jonny landed a good punch that knocked the other boy off his feet, Jonny had no trouble deflecting the weak blows of his opponent. Grayson was no match for him and the fight was over in minutes.

When Grayson didn't get up after the last hit, Jonny raised his arms in the air while the small crowd that had gathered clapped—at least most of them did. Grayson's parents didn't look too happy, but Jonny didn't care. Their son was stupid and deserved what he got for challenging Henry Archer's son.

After the group dispersed, Jonny strutted over to his father. "I won," he said, puffing out his chest.

Father looked down at him with a frown. He grabbed Jonny's chin and jerked his head to the side to better examine the bruise swelling around his right eye. "He shouldn't have been able to hit you at all." Father let go of him and walked away without a backwards glance.

Jonny was crushed by the disapproval. Why was it so hard to make Father proud of him? He scrubbed his hands across his cheeks to wipe away his angry tears. As he stared at his father's retreating form, he decided that he wasn't going to give up. Someday he'd win Father's approval. He'd do whatever it took.

_Beep-beep. _

_Beep-beep._

Jon's comm chirped several times before he was fully awake. The dream still lingered as he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't dreamt about Henry in years, and he wondered why he would start now. His father was not someone he wanted to waste time thinking about.

He answered the comm when it chirped again. "Archer."

"Captain, you have a priority one communiqué from Admiral Black_._"

Jon's stomach dropped. This couldn't be good. "Patch it through to my quarters."

"Yes, sir_._"

Jon hastily threw on some pants and sat at his desk. The monitor blinked to life, indicating a waiting message. He took a deep breath as he keyed his security code.

Admiral Black filled the screen. His brow was furrowed, his stern expression reminiscent of the look Henry wore in Jon's dream moments ago.

"Captain_._" Black's greeting was curt.

"Admiral, how can I serve you?" Jon tried to sound as compliant as possible. It was a challenge.

"I just finished speaking with General Brandt, and he wants to know why one of his best officers is being held in the brig of the_Enterprise__._"

Jon kept his expression neutral despite the anger tightening his chest. "Major Hayes and four of his subordinates are facing mutiny charges."

Black's eyes narrowed. "Mutiny? What mutiny?" His reply was thick with an underlying message: the mutiny never happened. Jon's suspicions were confirmed—Black had been behind it all.

Jon clenched his teeth. He should have either executed Hayes immediately after taking back the ship, or released the soldiers as soon as he learned that Black was his new commander. His indecision would cost him.

"Major Hayes and any other MACOs being held in the brig will be released immediately. Understood?"

"Understood, Admiral." Jon tapped his fist to his chest.

Black looked him over once more before ending the call. As Jon stared at the blank monitor, he thought about all the mistakes he'd made in the last several months. He grudgingly admitted the list was growing too long. Exactly when did he start losing his edge? It had to have been when he made that alliance with Tucker. He had gotten too lax and now he was suffering for it.

No more. Iron resolve settled over him as he pulled a fresh uniform from his closet. Jonathan Archer would once again be a name that demanded respect.


	5. Useful Tools

**A/N:** Special thanks to HopefulRomantic for wielding the red pen—or purple pen, rather.

* * *

**Chapter Four**  
_Useful Tools_

* * *

The bar was dark, dirty and smelled like the armpit of the galaxy. It wasn't the worst place that Harris had met an operative—a vile _tuq vo'Soj_ on Qo'noS held that honor—but this little dive, hidden in a corner on Jupiter Station, was hardly better. Starfleet grunts in grimy coveralls filled the dimly lit bar with loud conversation and bursts of laughter. Curvy waitresses, wearing little more than daggers, ferried drinks throughout the establishment, ignoring the catcalls and ass-slaps they received. _The Emperor's Keg_ was the kind of locale where a spy could conduct his business without watchful eyes.

Harris sat in a booth on the far end of the room, glancing up from his untouched whiskey only when someone entered the bar. The servos whined as the door slid aside to admit another customer—this time a dark-haired man in a black overcoat. Harris recognized Kaleh, another operative in the Section, but didn't wave the other man over. Instead, he turned back to his drink, watching from the corner of his eye as Kaleh crossed the room and took the booth behind his.

"He was followed," Kaleh said in a low voice that only Harris could hear.

"Is he compromised?" Harris asked.

"No. He shook his tail, but I'm not sure for how long."

Harris lifted his glass and pretended to sip. "You know what to do."

Kaleh made no reply. That wasn't his real name, of course. It meant "dagger" in Romulan, and that was what Kaleh was—a weapon honed and sharpened through years of service in the Section. He was, perhaps, the most important tool in their arsenal.

The door servos whined again, drawing Harris's attention. Commander Tucker stepped across the threshold, dressed in a hooded jacket and wearing a baseball cap pulled down to his eyebrows. He scanned the bar until his eyes lighted on Harris. Tucker shuffled past the raucous crowd, keeping his head down as he made his way to the booth. He gave Harris a brief nod as he slid into his seat.

Before they could speak, a busty waitress joined them, leaning against the table provocatively as she addressed Tucker. "Well, aren't you a cutie? What's your poison tonight?"

Tucker waved his hand, affording her the barest glance. "Whatever's on tap is fine, darlin'."

Harris raised his brows. Tucker was an unrepentant flirt, and he'd just let a pretty red-head leave without so much as a leer. The rumors were true, then; he'd settled down—with a Vulcan, no less. Harris couldn't fault him for that; his own taste ran rather exotic as well.

As they waited for the waitress to return, Harris studied the younger man. Commander Tucker was another tool—not a weapon, but no less valuable than Kaleh. Harris had been doubtful at first when the other operative on _Enterprise_ claimed the commander was ripe for recruitment. As both a brilliant engineer and the first officer of Starfleet's elite warship, Tucker was a golden contact, but until the past year, he'd always been loyal to the Empire. Fortunately, a set of tragic events had placed the commander in the palm of the Section's hands, and they made good use of him.

The waitress returned, setting a glass of frothy beer in front of Tucker and giving him a dimpled smile. "Anything else, hon?"

Tucker shook his head, again hardly looking at her. "I'm good, thanks."

Harris snorted. That must be one hell of a Vulcan. "How was your trip?" he asked when they were alone again.

"Escaped an alien brig, piloted a shuttlepod in the middle of a space battle, got married…" Tucker shrugged. "Y'know—the usual."

Harris smiled. "Sounds dull."

Tucker nodded and pulled off his hat, handing it to Harris. "Can't say that I'd like to repeat the experience." He grinned. "Well, I didn't mind the marriage part so much."

Harris pretended to look the hat over while he discreetly removed the pouch on the inside and put a small PADD in its place—Tucker's new orders. He passed the hat back to the younger man who placed it back on his head.

Harris took a sip of his whiskey, rolling the burning liquid over his tongue before swallowing it. "Speaking of marriage, you might think about taking your wife home to meet your family during your furlough."

Tucker narrowed his eyes. "I've got too much work to do on the ship."

Harris leaned forward, lowering his voice. "That's not a suggestion, friend."

"I can't take her there. Are you _crazy_?" The muscles in Tucker's jaw clenched.

Harris gave him a pointed look. "The transport leaves in the morning. Whether or not your wife accompanies you is your decision, but you _will_ go to Earth."

Tucker scowled at him, but didn't argue. He took a long pull of his beer, making a face when he set down his glass_._ Harris chuckled._ The Emperor's Keg_ wasn't known for its brews.

The door slid open, and Harris looked past the commander, noting the group that entered. Most of them made their way to the bar, shaking hands and sharing back-slaps with others, but one hesitated just inside the threshold, surveying the room. It took Harris only a second to recognize one of the officers from _Enterprise_.

"Down!" he hissed to Tucker.

At the same time he heard the creak of leather in the booth behind as Kaleh stood up. "This place reeks of Starfleet muck!" he bellowed, slurring his words.

Harris shot out a hand to keep Tucker from lifting his head to look in the direction of Kaleh. The two would meet soon enough, but not tonight, if Harris could help it. "Stay down!" He caught the eye of the waitress, who gave him a brief nod.

"What did you just say?" One of the larger men from the bar stepped up to Kaleh.

Kaleh staggered forward. "I said"—he jabbed a finger toward the beefy man—"that you stink!" He waved his finger at the entire crowd. "The lot of you!"

Harris stood and stepped up next to Kaleh, blocking Tucker's view of him. "I think you're right. This place does stink." He glanced back and saw the waitress leading Tucker toward the back. She hung on him as if they were lovers going for a quick tryst in the back alley. In the other direction, the officer was making his way toward them.

"Yeah." Kaleh poked the big guy in the chest. "And what are you stupid apes going to do about it?"

_This should be interesting._ Harris ducked as the first punch was thrown.

**=/\=**

Kelby cursed. He thought he'd seen Tucker sitting in the booth in the back, but as he started to cross the room, all hell broke loose. The tiny bar became a pandemonium of yelled insults and swinging fists. Kelby had to duck more than one bottle flying through the air as he tried to skirt around the brawl in a crouch.

After getting shoved a few times, he made it to the booth, only to find it empty. He cursed again. Tucker _had_ been here, he was sure of it. Kelby scanned the mob for the commander but it was difficult to make out anyone in that mess. He tried looking for the man who had shared the booth with Tucker, but he too seemed to be gone. _Dammit!_ What was the commander up to? It had to be something—no Starfleet officer in his right mind would darken the doors of a place like this.

With a start, Kelby saw someone who shouldn't have been there. _No, that's impossible_. The rumbling crowd swallowed the familiar face before Kelby could catch more than a fleeting glance. _Impossible_, he told himself again. It was his mind playing tricks on him.

Something hard bashed into the side of his head, and he saw a brilliant flash of white before slipping unconscious.

**=/\=**

Hoshi nearly ran into Phlox when she rounded the corner on her way to the comm lab. Hiding her surprise at seeing the Denobulan out of sickbay—especially in this section of the ship—she tried to step around him, but he blocked her path.

"Still on duty, Lieutenant?" He glanced at the entrance to the lab, and then brought his brilliant blue eyes back to her. "It's a little late, isn't it?"

Hoshi was unnerved by his piercing gaze. But then, she always felt unsettled around the doctor—everyone did. "I just wanted to make sure everything was in order for tomorrow." She didn't know why she felt the need to explain anything to him.

"Ah." Phlox scrutinized her for a moment longer before stepping aside. "I won't keep you, then."

Hoshi watched him as he continued down the corridor. Something seemed off about the encounter. Why was everyone changing? Jon, she could understand. He needed to prove himself, to hang onto his captaincy. But Tucker? And now Phlox?

She shook her head. One puzzle at a time. The commander was the bigger threat. She'd check into the doctor after she had Tucker's secrets.

The two crewmen manning the lab stopped mid-conversation and saluted her with fists over their hearts when she entered. Hoshi grinned. When Jon had promoted her to lieutenant, he'd also given her command over the communications team—officially, anyway. The officer who'd held the position before had already been deferring to her, even though she was an ensign. Men were so easy to manipulate. Most of the time.

"Why don't you both take a break," she said as she sauntered toward them. Her grin deepened when one of them swallowed audibly. Hoshi felt powerful—capable of rendering men incoherent with a swivel of her hips and a coy look. It was never enough, though. She dreamed of crushing them all underfoot, every man or woman who would use her to claw ahead—_especially_ the men.

"Yes, ma'am." Both crewmen scrambled out of their chairs and headed toward the exit, giving her clumsy salutes as they ducked out the door.

She laughed. The simple fools had been so easy to play. They would fall all over themselves to eat out of the palm of her hand, hoping that someday she'd offer more than a flirtatious smile. She never would, of course. The days when she had to bed-hop to stay afloat were long past, and she was glad that she could be more selective about who received her special attention.

Hoshi took a seat at the recently vacated desk. On the screen, she brought up Tucker's comm logs—all of them since he joined the crew of _Enterprise_. She could have looked them up from the monitor in her quarters, but she would have only gotten the summaries. Details were what she needed, so she could find a pattern, if there was one. She'd looked over his personnel records the night before, but nothing had stood out.

She pulled a PADD out, syncing it with the monitor. As the records began scrolling on the small screen, she frowned—there were thousands of them. She would need to narrow her search; it would take luck to find the needles Tucker had hidden in all these haystacks in time for it to be of any use to her. Hoshi didn't believe in luck.

When had the commander started behaving differently? It was before he brought back the Vulcan—though the change had become more apparent after that. Hoshi sifted through her memories of her time serving with him. In truth, she'd had less interaction with him than the other officers on the ship. He'd never been interested in her, ignoring her advances and treating her, instead, as the poisonous viper that she could be. Despite being the first officer, he'd always preferred to spend most of his duty hours in Engineering.

_Engineering_.

Was that when the change had occurred? After he survived that explosion in Engineering? Hoshi had been there when Phlox explained to Jon that none of Sim's memories would affect the commander. Though Sim had been a clone of Tucker, he'd been subdued—never smiling—like a colorless copy of the commander. Could Phlox have been wrong? She thought of her unsettling encounter with the doctor earlier. Could Phlox have _lied_?

No. Hoshi furrowed her brow. Lying about that would have served no purpose. _One puzzle_, she reminded herself. Her instinct told her that she was closer to the answer now.

In another window, she brought up Tucker's personnel files. She scanned his records around the time of the incident, and found something else. Two months before, there was an annotation added to his file about a death in the family. He'd lost a sister in a transport accident.

The two—his sister's death and the explosion that nearly killed him—seemed to be a recipe for something. What, Hoshi didn't know yet, but it was a place to start.

The PADD beeped, indicating that the file transfer was complete. The door to the lab opened at the same time, and Hoshi looked up, expecting that the crewmen had returned from their break. Instead, Jon stood in the doorway.

"I thought I'd find you here." He crossed the room and sat on the desk. "Did you find anything interesting?"

Hoshi kept the scowl from her face. "No." She was still bothered by his demand that she share everything with him. With his renewed ambition, Hoshi's instincts told her that he'd know if she withheld anything, and he would make her pay for it.

Jon picked up the PADD and looked it over. "I'm sure it won't take long. There's no one better at this than you." He handed it to her, and she grimaced at the thrill she felt at his compliment. "I have another job for you right now, though." He stood, holding out his hand.

Hoshi took it. "What is it?" She was wary of what he wanted. Jon was becoming unpredictable, and she never liked unpredictable.

He smiled. "Nothing that you can't handle with your talents." He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. "I just received notification that Kelby's been hospitalized on Jupiter Station. He was caught up in a bar fight, apparently."

Hoshi's brow furrowed. "Isn't that Commander Tucker's problem?"

"Maybe." Jon shrugged. "Maybe not. I'm told that he was following Trip. I'd like to know what he saw."

She understood. If Jon knew that Kelby was following the commander, it meant Jon had set his own tail on Tucker. Kelby must have been more successful. "Why don't you question him, yourself?"

Jon shook his head. "I don't think he'd tell me anything. He doesn't trust me yet." He pulled her closer, pressing the length of his body against hers. "I think he might open up to you. You can be very persuasive when you want to be." His hand on her back snaked lower. "And I want you to be _very_ persuasive."

Flushing with anger, Hoshi tried to pull away. A tool—that's all she was to Jon. That's all she was to every man—all she ever would be.

Jon narrowed his eyes, tightening his arm around her. "Don't think for a second that I'm trying to whore you out to him." His grip became painful. "Use your other talents. I'm _never_ sharing you with another man again." He leaned down, lips hovering over hers. "You. Are. _Mine_."

He crushed his mouth against hers, and she tried to resist—to tear away from the devouring kiss. He brought a hand up, roughly twining his fingers in her hair, preventing her from pulling back. A part of her wanted to give in, to melt into him—to let him take her, possess her. The other part of her hated him for manipulating her, and hated herself for being aroused by this dangerous, new Jonathon Archer.

He broke off the kiss and let her go. "I'll see you in my quarters when you're finished." He turned and left the lab without waiting for her to respond.

Hoshi stared after him, desperately searching for a way to gain the upper hand again.

**=/\=**

Trip sat in his darkened office, trying to ignore the small PADD on his desk. He never questioned his orders before—never gave a damn about the danger the Reformists put him in. He could get knifed in the back just walking the corridors of the _Enterprise_—did it really matter if he met his end doing espionage?

Things had changed, though. Trip cared a whole hell of a lot more about survival these days. And it seemed that just when he'd discovered a will to live, the Reformists were bent on seeing him run headlong into the gaping maw of death—with his Vulcan wife in tow, no less.

Son of a _bitch_.

All his decisions were based on one premise now: keeping T'Pol out of danger. He'd be damned if he was going to let the Reformists take her away from him. Except…

Except he didn't know how to solve this conundrum. He _had_ to go to Earth. Refusal would mean execution—or quiet assassination, rather. They couldn't risk him turning on them, and he understood that. Though it was inconvenient to leave the ship when his alliances were tenuous at best—and when Kelby hadn't decided where his loyalties lay—that wasn't the problem with Trip's orders. The problem was whether or not he should take T'Pol with him.

Both options put her in more danger than she'd been in since boarding _Enterprise_. He could leave her behind with a contingent of bodyguards, but without him here to answer to, they might be tempted to turn a blind eye during an attack. Trip was under no illusions that anyone on the ship was thrilled that he'd taken a Vulcan as a wife—including the crewmen and officers who were loyal to him. How easy would it be for T'Pol to have an "accident" while he was away?

Trip picked up the PADD. At least the Reformists had provided a plausible way for her to accompany him. Only, it would require T'Pol to be disguised as a human—Earth was a treacherous place for aliens. He wasn't sure if she could pull it off. And if she were discovered…

The door chimed. Trip pocketed the small device before calling out, "Come."

Rostov entered with a quick salute. He took in the dim surroundings and gave Trip a lopsided grin. "I could get you a plasma torch, if you want, Chief. I hear that Vulcan meditation goes better if you focus all your thoughts into a flame."

Trip smiled. He hoped he never had to kill Rostov. The kid was so damn likeable. "What do you need, Ensign?"

"Actually, there's some scuttlebutt on the ship I think you should know about, sir." Rostov's expression sobered. "Our new acting chief landed himself in the hospital on the station. Rumor says it was a bar fight."

Trip felt a sudden unease. "Where?" He'd known he was followed by someone, but he thought he'd lost his tail long before meeting up with Harris.

"_The Emperor's Keg_," Rostov said. "Now, I won't say that I'm bothered that the lieutenant was on the receiving end of a good ass-kicking, but honestly, that bar is not the kind of place where an officer goes to nurse a beer, you know?"

_No, it's the kind of place an officer goes to help plan the next step in overthrowing the government_. Trip's stomach dropped. How much had Kelby seen?

"There's more, sir," Rostov said. "One of my buddies in transport told me that he just dropped off Lieutenant Sato at the hospital."

Trip bit back a curse. "I'll look into it."

Rostov grinned. He had the same gleam in his eyes as he did after Trip had met with Hayes. The ensign was developing a mighty high opinion of him, and Trip worried what would happen if he let him down. With a jaunty salute, Rostov left the office.

Trip slumped in his chair. Hoshi had gone to see Kelby. Had Archer sent her or was she working alone? Did either of them suspect that the lieutenant had been following Trip? Or was this more wooing from Archer to earn Kelby's loyalty? So many questions and not enough answers. And the Reformists wanted him to abandon the ship in the middle of this mess. _Damn it all to hell!_

He was going to have to go back to the station and hope that he hadn't already lost Kelby. Trip didn't have time for a challenge, and he damn well wasn't going to leave a lapdog for Archer in charge of his engines while he was gone.

And he wasn't going to leave T'Pol behind, either.

Trip hurried out of his office, thinking how nice it would be to give the cosmos the finger. He was sick and tired of being only one step ahead of the grave.


	6. The Chains of Coercion

**A/N:** Thanks again to **HopefulRomantic** and her tireless work as my beta.

* * *

**Chapter Five**  
_The Chains of Coercion_

* * *

They were watching him. A pair of MACOs shadowed every turn Kelby made. He felt their eyes boring into him as he made his rounds in Engineering. Protection, Tucker had called them. A gift. Kelby glanced back at the stern-faced soldiers and snorted. _Protection, my ass_. They were Tucker's insurance policy—there to keep Kelby in line while the commander was away. Kelby's "gift" wouldn't hesitate to slit his throat if he showed any affiliation with Archer—if the engineering crew wouldn't dismember him first.

"It's time to choose a side," Sato had said to him in the hospital as she fingered her dagger. Kelby didn't care to think about how she'd gotten the blade past the weapons detectors. She flashed it to show him that he could be reached, even in a place that was supposed to be a sanctuary. _Choose a side_.

Tucker had chosen for him. Kelby scowled at his bodyguards as he made his way toward the office. If the commander hadn't taken the initiative, Archer would have found his own way to tether Kelby. Why had he ever believed he could stay out of this war? He surveyed the skeleton crew working with the grunts from Jupiter Station on the refit, feeling jealous of their anonymity. A few returned his gaze, hunger dancing in their eyes—hunger for what he supposedly had. Rank. Authority. _Power_.

"Idiots," he muttered. He remembered that hunger, remembered imagining what it would feel like to be the top dog, people scrambling to get out his way. He hadn't understood there would always be someone more powerful leading him along at knifepoint. The higher he climbed in the hierarchy, the more deadly his fall would be.

Kelby might run Engineering, but he was merely a pawn trapped between two powerful men. Each time he thought he was safely neutral, he learned they were ten steps ahead of him, their cords already wound around him, yanking him in opposing directions. His best chance for survival was to uncover the reason for Tucker's clandestine meeting in a seedy grunt bar. What Kelby would do with that information, he didn't know, but it would mean that he was no longer defenseless against the machinations of Archer and Tucker.

The soldiers took up position at the door as Kelby entered Tucker's office. He supposed it belonged to him too—he was the acting chief of engineering—but he felt as though he was intruding on the commander's personal space as he sat in his chair. Kelby picked up one of the PADDs from the stack on the desk. The small screen lit up with scrolling numbers and symbols. Of course it was encrypted, and knowing the commander's skill with mathematics, it would take Kelby days to crack the code—if he could crack it at all. He dropped the PADD back on the desk with the others. All of them were probably filled with engineering schematics or complex equations to expand warp theory. Tucker wouldn't keep anything incriminating here.

Kelby stood up, kicking over the waste bin in frustration. Trash and broken parts clattered across the floor. He frowned when he saw an unfamiliar device among the garbage, and knelt down to pick it up. It was like a miniature PADD, about the size of the palm of his hand. He turned it over, admiring the sleek design. The plastic of the tiny screen was warped, melted in some places as if it had been burned from the inside out.

Kelby's heart pounded. He wasn't supposed to find this. The cleaning crew went through the office during the gamma shift, but the schedule had changed from daily to twice a week while they were in space dock. He grinned as he studied the small PADD. Tucker had made a mistake. The thing was destroyed, the information on its hard drive irretrievable, but it was a place to start—and a confirmation of Kelby's suspicions. He could search the database to determine where the technology originated. He could—

The door chimed, and Kelby shoved the device into his pocket. "What is it?" he asked as he scooped up the broken parts, tossing them into the bin.

"Ensign Rostov to see you, sir_,_" one of the guards answered through the comm.

Kelby grimaced. Despite working together to undo Reed's mutiny, Kelby hadn't earned much in the way of respect from the ensign—or any of Tucker's loyal crew for that matter. "Send him in."

The tall, dark-haired young man handed Kelby a PADD as soon as he entered. "Here is the latest list of upgrades proposed by Command. They need you to sign off on them, sir."

Kelby scanned the list. Nothing unusual stood out, just basic upgrades, so he thumbed his approval. "Aren't you supposed to be off-duty, Ensign?" he asked as he gave back the PADD.

Rostov shrugged, his face uncharacteristically somber. "I can never rest when people are messing with things they shouldn't be."

Kelby felt the room shrink as he returned Rostov's penetrating gaze.

Before he could react to the implied threat, Rostov continued with a smile, "You know how those desk-jockeys are once they get their greedy hands on a real engine, sir. They're overcome with temptation to do lots of inappropriate touching. The more of us standing over their shoulders, letting them know they'll be spaced if they don't treat our girl with respect, the less fondling will happen."

Kelby grunted. "Carry on, then."

Rostov saluted, and Kelby watched him leave, feeling a chill as he turned the ensign's words over in his mind_. I can never rest when people are messing with things they shouldn't be._ That had been a threat, all right, thinly-veiled and masked in humor, but a threat nonetheless. Kelby raked his fingers through his hair. They were all watching him—Archer and Sato, Tucker and his crew, the MACOs outside the door—_all_ of them.

_Choose a side_, those eyes whispered. _Choose your death._

**=/\=**

T'Pol kept her expression placid as Trip led her through the unpleasant streets of the Lunar colony. Unlike the sleek architecture near the space port, the buildings on this side were dilapidated, worn down from years of neglect. Neon signs flickered, advertising gambling and entertainment that was decidedly sexual in nature. Rooms were available to rent by the hour, and T'Pol surmised that little resting happened in such places.

People milled about the streets—human and alien alike—making wagers on games or soliciting others for copulation. T'Pol saw Orions, Andorians, Denobulans and even a few Klingons scattered among the larger human population. Many called out to Trip as they passed, giving him explicit suggestions on how best to "tap that tight Vulcan ass" as well as proposals to "make it a party" for a small fee. Internally, T'Pol shuddered at the thought of engaging intimately with any of those who offered. She felt Trip's disgust and anger through their bond. His face, however, displayed neither. He grinned, appearing unaffected by the lewd comments as he waved off those who flashed their assets at him. "I don't share!" he yelled more than once, as well as, "She's mine!"

T'Pol's stomach churned as the calls continued. How could anyone live like this? She had thought life onboard _Enterprise_ revealed the crudeness of her _adun'_s species, but that was the model of civility compared to this. She glanced at Trip. He still wore his uniform, as she did, and had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He had not revealed why they left the ship, or where they were going, and she would not press him. He would tell her when he was ready.

This didn't prevent her from forming theories for their hasty, mysterious exit, however. He had gotten new orders after his meeting on Jupiter Station—that much she concluded. If they were attempting to escape from Starfleet or the Reformists or both, she believed that the turmoil of emotions she felt emanating from him would be different from the mixture of anger, frustration, and fear he projected now. Whatever the mission was, it was a dangerous one.

"Here we are," Trip said, stopping before a three-story building. It appeared to be in better condition than those surrounding it, but still looked as though it would not survive a Vulcan sand-fire storm. The ads that flashed across the window panes proclaimed it to be an extended-stay establishment.

Inside, the small foyer was furnished with mismatched chairs and tables, but was clean and orderly. A large woman sat behind a desk that spanned the far wall, enclosed by a plate of glass that blinked with room rates when they approached.

The woman looked up at them with a smile, displaying a set of poorly fitted artificial teeth. "How long, sugar?" she asked Trip.

"A week," he said, pulling a small cloth bag from his pocket. "I want your cleanest room."

The woman nodded. "I'll see what I can do." Her fingers flew across her monitor. "All of our rooms are clean here. You could take a tricorder to any of them and you wouldn't find a speck of germs." She glanced at T'Pol. "I know what you want, though. Her kind tend to be extra picky."

T'Pol raised a brow. _Her kind_? Surely no Vulcan had ever lodged in a place like this.

"I'll need a deposit—refundable of course," the woman continued, turning back to Trip. "Vulcans can get violent sometimes, if you know what I mean." She winked. "The last one we had tore apart every stick of furniture in his room. I'm amazed his girlfriend—and I use that term loosely—left without mark on her."

T'Pol's other brow joined the first. The human had described a male in the throes of ponfarr. He must have been an agent with the Ministry of Security, deep undercover. T'Pol could think of no other explanation for his presence so close to Earth.

Trip pushed the bag through the slot at the bottom of the glass. "That should be more than enough to cover everything."

The woman's grin broadened as she dumped out the credit chits. "Definitely, sugar. Do you want to register anonymously?"

Trip shook his head. "Put us down as Commander Charles Tucker III and T'Pol of Vulcan." He pressed his hand against the glass. A green light flashed, scanning it. T'Pol did the same after his gentle nudging through the bond.

Recognition dawned on the woman's face. "Yes, yes. I believe you have a reservation, Commander." She tapped on her monitor. "Room 302 as requested." The glass displayed the floor plan of the hotel with their room flashing in red.

Trip passed a few more credits through the slot. "Thanks, darlin'."

On the way to their room, T'Pol considered asking him if he would explain why they were taking a room in a less-than-desirable part of the colony, but sensed his reticence. His swirl of emotions continued to permeate the bond, coupled with a fatigue so great that his knees should have buckled. This was not the first time she had witnessed him work despite bone-deep weariness. "Living on adrenaline," he called it. She had offered to teach him meditation, to help him acquire a semblance of rest, but he told her that watching her was good enough for him.

"The honeymoon suite," Trip announced with a sardonic grin when they arrived at the room. He let his duffle bag slide to the floor with a thump as soon as they crossed the threshold. Holding his finger to his lips, he rifled through the bag and pulled out a small, pyramid-shaped device. An indicator light blinked red for a few seconds before changing to green. Trip set it on the nightstand next to the bed.

The room was orderly, though the furniture was mismatched here as well. A small kitchenette took up the far corner; a neat stack of plates and utensils rested on the counter. Paintings hung from the walls, landscapes from various planets. T'Pol was surprised to see one from Vulcan.

"Better than I expected," Trip said. He looked down at her, the bond spiking with the regret he felt every time he believed he was subjecting her to intolerable conditions. "Sorry 'bout this, babe."

"An apology is unnecessary, _adun_." She stroked his cheek with two fingers, sending reassurance to him. "It is safe to conclude that you had little choice in the matter."

A torrent of conflicting emotions swelled from him at her words—including guilt. T'Pol drew her brows together. Guilt? Why would he feel guilt for something over which he had no control? It was illogical.

Before she could pose the question out loud, he drew her into his arms, leaning down to press his lips against hers. The familiar electricity flared between them, enhanced by their bond. As Trip deepened the kiss, a thrill of heat swept over T'Pol's body, settling in her abdomen. His desire—no, his _need__—_surged through the connection, wilder than she'd experienced from him before.

What followed was frenzied, manic as they divested each other of all clothing, his lips somehow never leaving her mouth, her neck, her shoulders as he stripped her. T'Pol gasped when he joined with her, swift and violent. His rough, desperate ministrations, coupled with his storm of fear and affection, awakened a primal fire that blazed through her veins. Only his touch could quench the brilliant flame—and it wasn't enough. _More!_ Had the word originated from her or him? There was no way to know, not while the heat that flushed her skin, her insides, made coherent thought impossible.

An hour later, spent and glistening with sweat, T'Pol curled against Trip on the floor.

"What the hell was _that_?" he asked between panting breaths.

"I do not know."

Though their previous encounters had always been enthusiastic, this had been different. If he were Vulcan, she might have guessed they had been taken by the plak tow, but he was human. Ponfarr was not a possibility.

"That was the hottest sex I've ever had, but damn, I don't think I can do that every time." Trip chuckled. He kissed the top of her head, untangling himself from her body. "We can't stay."

T'Pol tilted her head. Hadn't he rented the room for a week? She sat up, following him with her eyes as he pulled a black bag out of the closet, his unrelenting exhaustion seeping through their connection. How was he able to function?

He smiled at her as he laid out some clothing on the bed. "I can sleep when I'm dead, darlin'." He held up a dress that was Terran in design. "D'ya think you can pretend to be human?"

T'Pol canted a brow. "I can attempt to."

"You'll have to do better than that. No pressure, but our lives depend on it." He tossed her the garment. "Get dressed, and I'll tell you everything."

**=/\=**

Trip sucked in the humid Florida air as he stepped off the transport. _Home._ The place he'd hoped never set to foot on again. He turned, holding a hand out to T'Pol. She emerged from the ship, wearing the dress he'd given her and a wide-brimmed hat. Her hair hung down around her shoulders instead of the upswept do she normally wore. She took his hand and stepped down next to him.

_Smile, hon_, he sent to her. T'Pol obeyed, the corners of her mouth turning upward. It was only a hint of a smile, but that was the best she could offer. They had practiced back at the hotel, and the more she exaggerated her expressions, the more unnatural she looked. He would just have to tell people that she was reserved—_really_ reserved. How they were going to survive this, he didn't know.

At the gate, the guards waved security wands over them and took their handprints. T'Pol's file would come up as Polly V. Tucker, born and raised on Terra Nova, recently married to Commander Charles Tucker III. After the guards searched Trip's bag, they motioned the pair through. Trip blew out the breath he'd been holding. Five minutes on the planet, and they'd managed to stay alive.

It was a short ride to his childhood home; he spent it with his arms around T'Pol in an effort to appear as smitten newlyweds. He might have been happy to indulge in a rare public display of affection with her, except she was cranky. After he'd told her everything at the hotel, she had cited all the reasons that bringing her to Earth was the illogical choice—first and foremost being that her presence would endanger both of their lives. His attempt to convince her that she would have been worse off alone on the ship had ended with her spouting some kind of malarkey about the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few, or the one.

"I'm human, T'Pol," he'd said. "I don't give a damn about anyone but me an' you. 'Sides, it's too late now." She responded by suggesting that he withheld information until she was left with no choice but to accompany him. Another heated argument later, they were on their way to Earth.

The cab pulled into the circular drive of a Victorian mansion with manicured lawns, rose vines climbing the veranda, and bouquets of hyacinth blossoms lining the driveway. It was picturesque, and Trip hated it. The beauty was a mask that hid the many sins of his family. Lizzie had been the only pure thing in the midst of that decay, and she was gone—free from the nightmare. Starfleet had been Trip's escape.

The Reformists had better have a damn good reason for bringing him back here.

Trip helped T'Pol out of the car as the cabbie pulled their bag out of the trunk. The man gave Trip a deep bow before stepping back into the vehicle. Trip wanted to groan. There had been a time when he reveled in the benefits of being a Tucker in this community, but eventually the perks couldn't make up for the burden of so many lies.

"Welcome to my personal hell." Trip wrapped a protective arm around his wife's shoulders. "Are you ready?"

T'Pol cocked her head. "There is no plausible alternative."

Trip sighed as he rang the doorbell. "Nope." He prayed to whatever god existed they would get through this visit intact.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm sorry to say that's all I've got. Like I said, this was reposted per reader request. I do not, at this time, have any plans to write more. Perhaps one day, though.

Thank you for reading!


End file.
